“Good. I want to know where to find McIntyre’s new friends. And in the meantime, I want you to set up another meeting with the Myenese.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Would I ask, otherwise?”
“The thing is, I think we should focus now, David. Those people are out of the picture. It’s time to let them go.”
“No. We need to keep after them.”
“Why? This is no time for revenge.”
“It’s always time for revenge. Especially since they ruined my favorite jacket. But that’s not the point. Think about it. McIntyre tipped the Myenese off about this afternoon being a bust. Which means they’ve been in contact, in the last few hours. So they might be able to get in touch again.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“So, we need them back on the hook. That way, if the new buyers don’t lead us anywhere, we may still have a back door into McIntyre.”
“It’ll give us a plan B. Excellent. Or where are we up to now? Probably about plan Z, I should think. But whatever it is, I’ll talk to the IT guys. See if they can get something coded . . . Oh, can you hold on a second?”
The line went silent.
“OK, ” Fothergill said, after two minutes. “I’m back. And we’re in business. We know who Tony’s been messaging with. It’s an architect. Or someone in an architect’s office, anyway. A firm called Pascoe, Kershaw, and Reith.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Where are they?”
“Guess.”
“Where?”
“About three hundred yards from where I’m standing.”
I was beginning to learn that Fothergill was sometimes prone to exaggeration, especially where directions were involved. Pascoe, Kershaw, and Reith’s building was something over half a mile from the consulate, not three hundred yards. That didn’t matter enormously in the great scheme of things, but it did cause me a little inconvenience that afternoon. Because before approaching it, I decided to hit Starbucks one more time. And not just ’cause I was ready for another cappuccino. The main reason was that if you buy four drinks to take out, they give you a cardboard holder to carry them in. And if you approach an elevator hanging on to one of those with both hands, looking like you’re on the verge of spilling a couple of pints of hot liquid all over your neighbors, something magical happens. People’s natural inclination to ask who the hell you are and why you’re poking around their building instantly disappears. And is replaced with a simple, courteous question. Which floor do you want?
Fothergill’s lack of accuracy meant I had to lug the drinks twice as far as I’d expected, but when I arrived at the correct address they did the trick just as beautifully as usual. The architects had the top floor of an anonymous building on Washington and State, not far from the old Marshall Field’s department store. I loitered outside for a moment, observing the steady stream of office workers, before a young woman in a plum-colored suit paused to open the door for me. I followed her inside, glanced up at the list of tenants displayed over the concierge’s desk, and made my way across to join a gaggle of telemarketers who were waiting to head back up to their suite.
No one else asked for the same floor as me, but when the elevator doors opened I realized that wasn’t just a happy coincidence. It was because the architects’ firm had closed for the day. The lights were off, and the place looked locked down and deserted. Which wasn’t necessarily a problem. It just meant that getting inside would be a different kind of challenge.
I stepped out of the elevator car and into the reception area. A single chair was tucked neatly away behind a pale wooden counter, next to a computer screen and a phone. A blue leather couch was pushed back against the wall to the right, beneath two large black-and-white prints of the Chicago skyline. A pair of frosted glass doors filled the space to the left, with the partners’ names etched vertically in bold, modern letters. There wasn’t much else to see. Except for a digital keypad that was fixed to the frame. And a CCTV camera above my head, keeping watch over everything.
A drop of coffee slopped onto the floor as I flipped the lid off the backup cappuccino I’d bought. It was lucky I wasn’t planning on drinking it. All I needed was the foam. I scooped some out with my fingers, stretched up, and daubed it all over the camera’s lens. It wasn’t an ideal substance—not sticky enough—but I figured it would keep any images sufficiently indistinct as long as I didn’t hang around too long. I’d known people improvise with all kinds of foodstuffs before. Mayonnaise. Peanut butter. Hummus. And while steamed milk may have been a little more unorthodox, necessity is, after all, the mother of invention.
My next priority was the alarm, and that was just as easy to find. The control box was mounted on the far side of the counter, under the main shelf, at knee level for anyone who was sitting down. It had a keypad, an LCD display that confirmed it was armed, and a key switch to reset the system. I quickly searched the receptionist’s drawers, just in case. That wasn’t as long a shot as it sounds—human laziness and stupidity dictate that you can find either the override key or a note of the code in probably three tries out of ten—but it wasn’t to be this time. Instead I took a six-inch ruler, a well-sharpened pencil, and returned to the control box. I’d noticed that the manufacturer’s logo was attached to a circle of metal about the size of a dime at the top left of the case, and that had given me an idea. I eased the pointed corner of the ruler under the edge of the little disc and pressed down hard. It pinged off, snapping the ruler in the process, and rolled away under the counter. But I wasn’t concerned about the damage or the loss. Because at the center of the circle I’d just exposed was exactly what I’d been hoping to see. A tiny hole. I inserted the tip of the pencil into it and pushed. The box beeped. All the LCD characters flashed in unison. Then a message appeared:
ENTER RESET CODE?
I was relying on the fact that while practically all users changed their PINs to something secure after installation, not many of them knew how to reset their systems. That’s because you only find out if you lose your keys, forget your code, and call the manufacturer’s helpline. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and keyed in the most common factory default:
0 0 0 0
The system beeped twice. The LCD characters flashed. And a new message scrolled across the screen:
DISARMED
The cappuccino foam on the camera lens seemed to be holding up pretty well, but I smeared a little more on for luck before moving on to the final hurdle. The keypad next to the door. I took a closer look and saw it was divided into three sections. A narrow rectangle at the top, which housed a red and a green LED. An empty central section, the approximate size of a credit card. And the numbered buttons at the bottom—0 through 9, plus * and #.
I guessed the central panel would be a proximity card reader. That would probably be the way most employees would gain access, because it’s quicker and easier than having to enter a code. The keypad would be used by people who’d forgotten their cards, guests—unless they were given temporary passes—and contractors, and to allow the system to be disabled in case of emergency. Which I guess was a fair description of the situation I found myself in right then.
The emergency services can’t be expected to memorize the codes for all the alarms in all the offices in all the buildings they protect, so the systems come with what’s known as a fire number. In a sane world, there’d be just one of these. In fact, there are close to twenty. I knew six of them from past cases I’d been involved with, and I was pretty sure Fothergill could get me the others if I needed them. I started with the ones I could remember. The little red light glowed in response to the first three I keyed in. But when I entered the fourth, it turned to green. Life was good. I was clear to enter.